


Accepting

by phandomoftheowl



Series: Prologue Verse [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-30 18:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phandomoftheowl/pseuds/phandomoftheowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He unsheathes his sword and places the tip directly over Merlin's heart. Merlin is a traitor, and traitors should be executed; that is Arthur's father's law.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accepting

Morgana does not remember much about this particular prophetic dream, but she has seen it so many times now that she knows all of it. She thinks there might have been thunder and fire and the earth quaking. There is a pungent odor in the air, burning flesh. It rests on her tongue like stale cheese, makes her gag. It is dark; so, so dark, oppressive, choking. This is tragedy, yet... she knows this is her doing. All these deaths are because of her, and she does not care. Somehow, she relishes this pain and fear and torture she inflicts in her dream. It makes her... happy. And in the distance, far away from the destruction is a light. A beautiful, blue, magical light. It is kin, she knows, because she feels it deep within her soul. The light sings to her. It sings: _Emrys._

 

Morgana wakes with a tired, angry gasp. It is the same dream – nightmare – over and over again for the fifth night in a row. Morgause's amulet is useless against it. There are very few – nay, only two – dreams that have managed to slip through the weaves of her sister's healing magic. The one in which Guinevere is crowned Queen and this one. With its fire, and rage, and dust, it terrified Morgana more than the other dream ever could.

 

She shakily gets out of bed for the nearest pitcher of water. It is pointless trying to sleep now, so she walks over to the window and pulls the hangings apart. They are at the temple of the High Priestesses of the Old Religion. It is the only place Morgause deemed worthy for her recovery at the time. They are well hidden here on the island. No one except the two of them and a few servants.

 

And of course, Mordred.

 

Morgana well remembers that night three months ago when a whisper had woken her up in the middle of a night much like now. Except then, it had not been a dream, but a voice. A voice of a boy she recognized even though she knew him only a short while.

 

'I know, Morgana,' he had whispered. 'I have seen how you had to flee from your rightful throne. I can help you.'

 

'Who are you?' Morgana had asked, panicked. Hearing voices was never good, magic or not. 'Show yourself!'

 

'It is I, Mordred, and I cannot show myself because I am leagues away from you. But I can help. Join Alvaar and I, and together we can tear Camelot apart. Avenge the souls of the children of the Old Religion, those who have suffered at the hand of Uther Pendragon. This time, our army will have magic. Powerful magic that no sword can stand at chance against.'

 

After a proposition like that, how could Morgana resist?

 

Scores of Mordred and Alvarr's men are spreading among the Druids, spreading the word to join them, band together and destroy Camelot and claim it for them once and for all. And at the heart of it all is this mysterious Emrys, a man who Morgana knows to possess magic. She has never seen him, but _oh_ , her scrying as revealed it all to her. His power stretches across realms and protects him like an ermine cloak against the harshest of winters, keeps his identity from her. When Morgana scrys for him, all she can see is the same light from her dreams, and the power. That immense, shining power far greater than Morgana could ever hope to have.

 

It makes her angry every time she searches for him, because she has tried oh, so many times. She looks for him everyday as a reminder to the dream that haunts her sleep. It is a constant reminder of what can be with him here with them, on _their_ side fighting for their freedom, but he hides. Like a coward, he shields himself behind his magic and keeps out of the way. In the months since coming to this island, Morgana has been learning not only magic, but its history and its future as well. The Seers of Old speak of a great immortal being who will one day put an end to all their suffering. Morgana plans on making it happen; by force or by plea, Emrys will listen to her.

 

She has not yet told her sister of him. She will, when the time comes, but for now Emrys is her secret and one way or another she will draw him to her.

 

“Emrys,” she vows in the darkness. Hisses a name that should be unknown but seems as familiar as her own magic. “I will find you.”

 

()o()o()o()

 

“Arthur?” Merlin takes a tentative step toward the prince. He looks scared, Arthur notes. In all the time Arthur has known Merlin, he has never looked at Arthur in fear. It stuns the Prince into speechlessness for a few moments.

 

“Ah.”

 

Merlin seems to take the syllable as a negative reaction because he winces. “I was expecting something more than just _ah_. A sword through the heart, perhaps. Or a punch. I believe I'm long overdue for a few punches. I've been punched before by a boy in Ealdor – well, he tried at any rate in Ealdor. Sort of. A root just, erm... tripped him. I was prepared for yelling too, yep, expected a lot of that along with the habit of throwing stuff you've developed, mostly at me yeah, but a couple goblets never hurt-”

 

It is gratifying to know terror of Arthur hasn't rid Merlin of his inability to keep quiet.

 

“ _Mer_ lin.”

 

“Yes, Sire?” Merlin raises his nervous gaze back to Arthur.

 

“Shut. Up.”

 

Merlin bows his head in the perfect imitation of servility. Something in Arthur's chest aches at the picture. “Yes, Sire.”

 

Arthur closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. He has a headache coming on, and the image of bright flames on pale skin burned into his eyelids is not helping any. Arthur is not sure how he feels, only that there is a numbness spreading within him with every beat of his heart.

 

Merlin is... he is a – a – But he can't be. He is meant to be Merlin. Stupid, silly, uncomplicated, and most certainly _non_ -magical Merlin. When Arthur anticipated Merlin's secret, it was not this. He would never, in a million years, have guessed it was – it could be – Honestly, Arthur doesn't know _what_ he was expecting. However, this... this doesn't fit into it.

 

“Arthur?” Gwen's soft voice breaks through Arthur's muddled thoughts.

 

“Leave us,” he bites out harshly, a bit too harshly perhaps. She is only trying to help, after all.

 

Gwen pauses mid-step and stares at Arthur, hurt. He wants to apologize, but she is gone before the words can make it past his lips. Gwaine hesitates for a second, long enough to glare at Arthur and cast a questioning glance at Merlin. He apparently finds what he is searching for because he too leaves.

 

“It's all right,” Merlin murmurs preemptively to Lancelot when the knight hovers between his Prince and his friend.

 

“Are you sure?” Lancelot inquires. Arthur bristles at the question. It is not as if he is going to _hurt_ Merlin, for God's sake. Merlin nods assuredly; apparently he thinks along the same lines as Arthur. Somehow, that does not bring Arthur relief.

 

It is just the two of them in the tent now. Arthur lets himself crumble. He wants to stand upright, confront Merlin with his back straight, but he cannot. He can't even bring himself to look at Merlin without wanting to rage and storm. The numbness overcomes that, though, so he contends himself by falling onto the rough wooden chair behind with an audible groan.

 

“You can't,” he says simply. It is easier than confronting the truth staring him in the face. “You just – you can't. You aren't – just – you shouldn't be.” That is all Arthur can say, or think: Merlin should not be a sorcerer.

 

Merlin quirks a half-amused smile, though it doesn't reach his eyes, it is just unfair because now Arthur is distracted. Merlin should not have the capacity to smile when Arthur is so... so... something he cannot name himself.

 

“You'll find, Sire, that I am.”

 

“Shut up,” he grouses again. A pause, then, “You lied to me.”

 

He looks up in time to see Merlin's Adam's apple bob guiltily. “Yes.”

 

For some reason, the sight angers him, makes his blood boil. Before Arthur knows what he is doing, he has picked up the nearest object. “You _lied to me_.” The object – which happens to be a clay goblet – soars past Merlin's head, just barely nicking his ear and shatters on the floor behind him.

 

Merlin grimaces at the broken goblet. “That was a goblet of the Old Religion. Iseldir won't be happy about that,” he mutters.

 

“I don't bloody care!” Arthur roars. He unsheathes his sword and places the tip directly over Merlin's heart. Merlin is a traitor, and traitors should be executed; that is Arthur's father's law. Yet something stays his hand. “I should run you through,” he sneers.

 

Merlin doesn't move an inch either way. He stares back at Arthur with a calmness the Prince envies. His eyes - those blue, blue eyes - gaze at Arthur with a little bit of sorrow and a lot of defiance. “You should,” Merlin echoes. “But you won't.”

 

No. No, he won't. His father will call it weakness, but Arthur knows it is something much more than that. Still, he does not move the sword. “You don't know that.”

 

“I do.” Merlin moves only a few hair's breadth forward, causing the tip of Arthur's sword to tear the fabric of his tunic. “I know you. And I know you won't do it, because you are Arthur. Because you are Prince of Camelot, Future King of Albion, but mostly... mostly you're just man made of flesh and bone with compassion in his heart and perhaps even one day, the ability to forgive a traitor.”

 

What little resolve Arthur has then, falters at Merlin's words, the faith that resonates between them. Faith in Arthur. His sword falls to the ground with a dull, slightly anti-climactic clatter. “Damn you,” he whispers, eyes clenched shut against Merlin's open, earnest, positively regretful face.

 

It is unfair, he thinks, that the one man who truly understands him should be a traitor to the realm. It is unfair he is still more confused than ever. He wants answers, he just doesn't know which questions to ask anymore.

 

“I'm sorry,” Merlin whispers. “I wanted to tell you. So many times, Arthur, I really did.”

 

“Why didn't you, then?” he asks, eyes still shut.

 

“Because... do you remember when the Crystal of Neahtid was stolen?” Arthur nods absently, wondering where on earth this conversation is going. “You said-”

 

“I _remember_ what I _said_.” He had said, _if you ever put me in that position again, I'll clap you in irons myself._

 

“Then can you blame me?”

 

“No. But, I expected you to trust me.”

 

“I know. I know, and I am so very sorry. I really am. Arthur.” Arthur opens his eyes finally. He looks at Merlin's pleading face. “Please, can you ever forgive me?”

 

He considers it. However, when he thinks about it, Arthur realizes there is nothing to forgive. Yes, Merlin lied, and yes, he is a traitor. Of the worst kind, yet...

 

Arthur sighs. He has to know one last thing. “Would you stop?” he asks. “Using magic, I mean,” he clarifies when Merlin raises one eyebrow, silently asking him to elaborate. “If I asked, would you stop?”

 

His manservant does not say anything for a few moments. Then, quite suddenly, Merlin bends to pick up Arthur's sword in his left hand. He holds it by the hilt, the blade lies flat on his right palm. It takes Arthur back to the day Merlin stood before him about a year ago, when Cenred's army was almost at Camelot's borders and Merlin said something about destiny and believing in himself. That day, that moment, those versions of Prince and servant seem ages away.

 

Merlin's forehead is furrowed, but he has a small half-smile on his face. He looks from the sword to Arthur, almost calculating. It occurs to him that he should be worried, Merlin can easily tilt the axis of the blade and drive it through Arthur. He wonders why it doesn't bother him, and the answer comes so readily, Arthur inwardly laughs at his own ridiculous question. He knows now what had seemed impossible only ten minutes ago: Merlin can kill him without barely lifting a finger. If he wanted Arthur dead, well, Arthur would not be standing here right now.

 

“If I told you never to use your sword again. Not to fight a foe or to compete in a tournament. Not even to practice with your knights or, hell – to batter me around. Would you do it? Would you be able to stop just because someone asked you to?”

 

Arthur takes the sword from him, all the while staring at Merlin's decisive expression. Something heavy lifts off his chest as, once again, Arthur answers his own question. “No.”

 

“No,” Merlin echoes. “There are very few things I wouldn't do for you. But...” His servant shakes his head apologetically. “Not that.”

 

Arthur turns away, unable to look at Merlin. On any normal day, looking at Merlin is like looking at aflickering candle; today, it is like staring at the sun. Too painful.

 

He hears a sigh behind him. “Arthur-”

 

“Don't.”

 

“Alright. Okay, just-”

 

Arthur whips around and glowers at the other man. “I said _don't_ Merlin.”

 

“I know. I know, but... Arthur, the Alliance, I haven't told you everything.”

 

“You told me it was between a Druid boy and a witch.” Arthur had assumed the witch was Morgause.

 

“Yes. It's...” Merlin sounds reluctant to go on, so Arthur helps him by giving a sharp glare.

 

“You've lied to me enough. I want to know the whole truth.” It is scathing, he knows. Much too harsh than the occasion warrants since they both know Arthur has already forgiven even if he has not said so out loud.

 

Guilt flashes through him when Merlin flinches, but he does not back down.

 

Merlin straightens, as though he is steeling himself for something worse than when he told Arthur about his... magic. “The boy. The boy is Mordred, and the witch-”

 

“Morgause, I assumed as much,” Arthur says, trying to sound dismissive.

 

“No,” Merlin says, voice a bit shaky but his gaze unwavering. “No, not Morgause. Another witch. It is-”

 

But he is cut short when the tent flap parts to reveal one of the Druid Elders who were in here only a few minutes ago.

 

“Emrys,” she says. “They have come.”

 

Merlin looks at her, eyes wide but wholly unsurprised. He looks mostly resigned.

 

“Who?” Arthur asks, “Who has come?”

 

Merlin turns to Arthur with a deeply sympathetic expression. “Sire. I need to know, it is likely your most important decision as the Prince. As future King. Will you grant these people their freedom? Give them back the right to walk amongst the other innocents without persecution?”

 

“ _Now_?” Arthur asks, incredulously. “You want me to tell you right _now_?”

 

Merlin gives a sideways jerk of his head. “Now or never, Arthur. Are you willing to sacrifice loyalty to your father for the sake of avoiding another war?”

 

Arthur stares at Merlin. He blinks, once, twice. It is not that Arthur doesn't know his answer. Only... Arthur really, really wants to hit Merlin now. And his own stupid heart for attaching itself to something so... dangerous.

 

Had anyone else asked this of him with such urgency, Arthur would have ignored them, or taken his own sweet time. But this is Merlin, and while Arthur may act like he does not matter, the truth is – the truth is, Arthur has never been able to deny the incompetent fool anything.

 

Be it forgiveness for a lie that should, by all rights, brand him as traitor and have him thrown in the dungeons to await execution, or a simple yes or the biggest decision he might ever have to make for years to come.

 

Somehow, it's not a very difficult choice to make.

 


End file.
